The end where I begin
by Stars.Are.Metaphors
Summary: They have a lot in common. Daryl thinks she knows this. Maybe she told him about the two enchained walkers she dragged along and sliced their heads off the moment the opportunity dawned, because she knew he'd understand. It was never easy, in spite of her words. It can never be easy.


**Genre: Drama/Romance**

**Paring: Daryl/Michonne**

**Rating: M.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Notes: Slight AU.**

**Summary: ****They have a lot in common. Daryl thinks she knows this. Maybe she told him about the two enchained walkers she dragged along and sliced their heads off the moment the opportunity dawned, because she knew he'd understand. It was never easy, in spite of her words. It can never be easy.**

…

**The end where I begin**

…

…

…

…

She's not all that, really. The katana on her back is wicked and she's got this look on her face that _raves_ null and lip ripping _cold_ and he knows she's seen shit.

But he's seen shit too.

These times are dark and there's nothing left of the human race that could ever build a better society. He's got nothing to attribute to this world. Survival of the fittest is what's going on. Merle would agree. Daryl's got his bow and arrows strapped across his back and he runs inside this make-shift army of a baby, a kid, an old dude with part of his leg cut off and a bunch of grown ass people trying to survive. Sometimes it seems as though they're going after something, as if there's a goal lying ahead and they're just going to have to fight a little harder to reach it.

(There's no goal.)

There's not a day that passes when he doesn't think about Sophia or his parents or Merle.

Not a day passes when he _doesn't_ think Sophia's death was for the best. No goal in sight. But the dead don't have to worry about that.

* * *

His dad was a mean ass machine when he had a bottle in hand, the lid plucked off and wet patches of the cheapest beer he could afford with his already slimming pay check on his battered shirt. His dad was a verbal abusive jerk and he took it as his duty, that of an ex-marine and an ex-convict, to discipline. The words marines taught their fellow members and _what the hell jail could do to you once you're in_ were thrown out casually like confetti on a carnival. Discipline was needed, dad'd say, with a can of cheap beer in his hand and a whip in the other.

Merle wasn't disciplined well enough thus Merle was disciplined for the both of them.

Then Merle ran and Daryl was disciplined in order to understand that running away is for the weak.

Marines don't run away.

Inmates take blows, because they can't run away.

_('What are you, a pansy?')_

…

He doesn't give up on looking for Sophia.

Sophia is family and family doesn't get left behind.

Leaving her behind feels an awful lot like running, too.

…

Dale used to remind him of what can be.

The world's an ugly place and death roams the streets on lookout for fugitives. Mothers eat their husbands, fathers eat their children, kids eat their friends and friends eat whatever breathing, crisp flesh they can find. There's no humanity. The sense of what is wrong and what is right has become nonexistent and somehow the entities that still have a conscience repel. For a world that has gone so terribly rearward, it's believed that, they too, should follow its undoing. No cop to point out the good, no pastors to preach what is right—no reason to want to be better in a world where better is nonexistent.

Except that no one, really, wants to suffer, but no one, really, wants to change.

Dale didn't point out the good; he expected them to _know_ as their human given right. Dale didn't preach. What they believed varied, but they all longed for the same thing. And what the world became? It didn't _define_ them, they defined themselves. Often than less, they chose wrong above right.

Though, in these dark times, don't the lines blur?

Before the walking dead took over the lines between right and wrong blurred just the same. See, he hated Merle for leaving him, but he understood why Merle ran and sometimes Daryl wonders if they're all that different from before the apocalypse.

…

Dale didn't make it all that hard to believe in a better future, but Dale died, so maybe they really were bad.

Maybe they always were.

People still get beaten up. Husbands still have loose hands and wives still scram for the nearest make-shift shelter. Children get bullied all the same, men and women get raped and people kill people. Spouses commit infidelity and brothers leave brothers behind, because in a world where nothing's right; family doesn't really matter. Nothing's changed. There's just a little more ugly on top of the piling heap.

He's found a family. His army is his family and it feels so awfully right, hope has become more than a star, a sheen that only appears in the dark when no one else cares to look because no one else dares to hope. In the hidden shelters of the night, it appears, but hope's greater now with a family and it doesn't seem like a star any longer. It's so much more.

The sun.

The clouds.

_The moon._

Does bliss only have one appearance?

…

Though the sun falls and the clouds draw back and the moon fades when the sun comes up and the stars are only meant for the dark. Bliss is short lived. People die. Monsters are born. Family doesn't last.

…

He's learned that family isn't only blood.

Merle is family by blood, a brother for the memories and ghosts he left behind during his pursuit to protect his kid brother.

But Rick's family too and that's not by blood.

His father, is he family, too?

He's thought about it and he's not all that smart. Ask him to hunt down a wolf and he'd ask _what kind_. Ask him to lead a group through the woods and he'd say _stay close_. Ask him to kill and he'd come back with the dupe's head.

But ask him why the world's so dark even after the sun rises, and he'll be left speechless.

It's tricky. He's thought about it and yeah, his dad was family by blood, but he wasn't ever family by heart and if Daryl knows anything, he'd say the latter is principal.

* * *

So, he's not impressed.

* * *

She gets off this swarthy looking horse with a white triangle on top of the brow of its head. The walkers are in frenzy; torn and dirty fingers grasp the iron bars and the gratings of the prison trembles on its core. Rick folds his arms across his chest, his gun strapped at the hip and Glenn stands a few feet away, wobbling, with a rifle tightly in his grasp.

It seems as though the kind of person brave enough to scamper through a flesh eating mob with a horse is the kind of person who drags two enchained walkers with her as camouflage, but bravery doesn't cast out insanity. Bravery _is_ insanity.

''The grocery store is packed,'' she says.

Rick nods, there's a battle going on within their group leader that no one really knows how to cope with. Daryl sees it, but he's aware certain demons are better left to fight off alone. Sometimes their greatest enemy is the face looking back in the mirror and no one really knows how to deal with themselves better than the owner of that reflection.

His face contorts as he chips off a piece of wood from the cutting stick. It's almost an arrow. A little bit off at the point, and the stem needs to be slender.

''We need more formula,'' Glenn states the obvious, shifting a little on his feet. ''What are we going to do?''

He catches Glenn's eye and he's aware that since Rick's derogating sanity, his group has looked to Daryl for answers. From lousy asshole to source of hope and though temporarily, in this moment hope is all they've got.

Before Rick has a chance to say anything, Daryl rises, grasping his wooden stick as the crossbow lays forgotten on the faded turf.

''I'll go.''

It seems like the right thing to say. It's expected. If something needs to be done it's either him or Glenn, because the group can't miss Rick. At times, when the impossible has to be done, only Daryl is looked at. With him the options don't seem as far fetched as they did once upon a time.

Rick turns around to look at him, the ends of his lips twitch; a quick surge of gratitude scampering across his weary face before an almost unseen nod is given.

''I'll go, too.'' Michonne balances her weight on one leg as she takes in the scene. He's been watching her. Seen her watch others with the same calculating gaze that he can only imagine he's giving her.

He doesn't trust her. There's something awfully strange about a katana wielding warrioress who had two enchained walkers as her partners.

''Can handle it '_lone_,'' he barks.

She hardly shows a spec of emotion and that alone seems untrustworthy.

''I'm not saying you can't,'' she forgoes. ''I'm saying I'll go, too.''

Rick doesn't wait for it to get out of hand, which can only, Daryl assumes, happen with him in the mix.

''It's better to go with back-up, Daryl.'' And in those words alone Rick has implied that Michonne is trustworthy enough to have his back.

It's a dangerous notion. He trusts Rick's judgment, because Rick doesn't want to lose Daryl.

(Can't, maybe.

Maybe can't is the right word.)

Michonne, implied to be more than he expects her to be adds story to the null expressions she bears, and he's not sure who he'll become if he hears her narrate.

Rick takes his leave. Daryl's not going to disagree. The group needs him, Judith needs him and he won't run away because of someone as insignificant as Michonne.

Glenn scurries after Rick, the walkers induce mayhem at the bars and the swarthy horse eats the fading turf as if what's going on around him is nothing to be afraid of and the dead grass he chews has a source of protein left. 'Spite the fact it's the specialty on the menu for the walking dead. Never mind that in a world where good and evil clash and fade into each other, there's much to fear.

Though he never admits he fears as much as the little boy that hid underneath his bed for his daddy's wrath all those years ago. There are certain things he doesn't speak of. The same things he bears if one cared to look a little deeper, wrung through his chilly demeanor.

He may not let up, but it's the thought and endeavors that matter, right?

Michonne spares him one look, and then she shifts, pulls the mane of her horse as they trot past him.

…

He watches her go.

There's something oddly erotic about the warrioress.

…

The ride to the store is quiet.

They pass familiar trees on their way to the store, go up and down over bumpy planes and cracks in the roads. His teeth clatter; Daryl clenches the wheel tighter and endeavors to maintain as much insignificance as the woman next to him, but it's hard. Michonne has a tendency to be intimidating without trying and it makes him intrigued and curious about a life neither of them could ever live again.

What was she back then in the forgotten world, surely she didn't ride horses and wield swords all her life? Which makes him wonder when she picked up the skill; was it during the war, did it come naturally?

…

Swords don't run out, bullets run out.

…

She's smart, he can give her that.

…

They find the grocery store coveted from all life form. There are walkers about; aimlessly looking for something he has no intention of being.

They clear their way to the grocery story. He shoots his arrows and she cuts of heads, slides through stomachs and across chests with ease.

He gets to the door first, knocks it open with a foot and twirls around to shoot an arrow clear into a walker's throat. Michonne darts past him, making him survey their surroundings and once he's sure the only walkers that could serve as a problem are miles away, he locks the door behind them with a deadbeat bolt.

It's just gonna have to do for now.

Michonne's already rummaging through shelves, pulling out cans of beans and fruits and stacking them in a bag. She picks up everything of necessity, not too heavy to carry and he goes deeper into the store, looks for baby formula and finds them in a ravaged child section of the supermarket, abandoned on a high shelve. He takes the remaining three tins; the rest of the assortment cracked open, contents on the floor. He also finds a teat with a cow on its end, the smell of unwrapped rubber around it while hiding in a corner full of cobwebs. He's heard of the rubbery bauble. Kids need it for their growing teeth.

He thumbs through the webs, picks them off clean and pockets one.

He turns, comes face to face with Michonne, startles a bit.

She scrutinizes him from head to toe and it does something to him, like she's touching pieces of his skin and running it along the gaps between her fingers. She doesn't speak, doesn't acknowledge that he _knows_ she's looking and doesn't look for a bit abashed when their eyes finally do meet and hold.

In another world she may have smiled and he may have thrown her a cocky grin and they could flirt like they've got all the time in the world even when the fact to the matter was, they didn't. No one's got all the time in the world, never had, and in _this_ world they're acutely aware of that fact.

''Got your shit?'' He asks.

She nods subdued and he juts with his chin towards the door behind her, tells her, ''What're we waiting for? Let's go.''

That's when he hears it.

The deadbolt chipping off.

…

They go through too many walkers to count before they find a safe place inside what used to be a men's ware section. He locks the door with an iron rod he picked up when three walkers were tailing him and his arrows were slimming down. It's covered in slime and blood from when he slung it across a face, knocking the head off and impaling the remaining two, but he's used to the sight. Death doesn't make him shudder or look away and neither do its remnants make him cower.

Michonne is looking across the wide room, her katana out of their sheaths, cautious movements in her steps and he swears; he may be looking at Joan of Arc hunting down an unfortunate prey.

This does make him shudder, but it's the curious kind, like he wants to follow her and see her in action.

There are two walkers she crosses and neither have the time to growl past blackened teeth and torn mouths as she slays them, cutting their heads off clean. He begins his own exploration of the room, away from the pounding but unwavering door to stoned walls and board covered windows. He pushes against one of the boards, making it falter. If the walkers were to find this poorly done craft, they'd be surrounded by an army of the dead Daryl's not sure they'll be able to overpower. But if they'd leave right now, there's just as much of a chance they're going to be attacked.

Michonne resumes her inspection, by the time she's finished Daryl's already sitting across the floor, legs crossed and stretched in front of him, and the flat of his hands holding him up.

Michonne puts one katana back into its sheath, the other dangling from her left hand and with eyebrows up she watches him.

''Any reason for why you're not tearing down the walls for a great escape?''

He heaves his shoulders. ''We've got two options, from what I've b'n seeing. We scram _and_ get mounted, we don't scram _and_ get mounted.''

''Is that any different from the usual?'' She asks flatly, flared with exhaustion and something else like curiosity. She takes a seat in front of him, despite, curls her legs underneath her, Indian style, and places the katana on top, because it's better to be restless than undead _and_ restless.

''Nah,'' he says. ''But if we wait it down for a couple of minutes, get 'em to settle for a bit, we'd have a fightin' chance. If it's out there.''

She nods almost imperceptible and does something that confuses him. She cleans off the guts and blood of her katana with an old rag she must have found in this section of the room, silently, waiting for the minutes to tick by before they attack.

It's the silent trust that has him pausing, scrutinizing her face and the firm set of her mouth. It may have been the air of alleviation settling over them and his curiosity for the silent woman in front of him, he's never been able to tame, that prompts him to asks, ''How'd you even get swords?''

She doesn't look up as she answers, ''People don't go looking for katana when they've gotta family to protect.''

He frowns at that, both at the implication that people wouldn't look for weapons to protect their family and that she didn't have one at the beginning of the apocalypse. ''People would grab the first weapon they'd find,'' than, as he realizes what he's said, continues with, ''maybe not swords.''

_Katana_—he corrects silently, but he likes the way she looks up at 'swords' with a hiked eyebrow and flickering pupils.

''You'd be surprised at what people are capable of when all goes downhill.''

He wouldn't be, he realizes. Not since a while, at least.

He's intrigued by her, wants to ask her a thousand and one questions but he's got no idea where to continue from so he settles on watching her swipe and flex, hunched over her katana and pursing her lips.

''Are you just going to keep staring at me?''

He flinches at her voice, looks to her eyes but they're still focused on the katana, her hand carefully dragging the cloth to the point and off.

''Got nuthing else to do,'' he admits.

She stills and then slowly a small and tainted smile creeps up along the edges of her mouth. It's more of a twitch he hardly detects, but Daryl keeps himself in check.

''You never answered how you got the swords in the first place, you know.''

There, the smile goes. She looks up, head slightly cocked to the side as she elevates him. He must be as much of a mystery to her as she is to him.

''Found the _katana_ in a worn down warehouse; had all kinds of weapons. I was good with a gun but,'' she shrugs. ''I'd come across too many empty guns and fired a lot of blanks and I've been looking for bullets for extended periods of time... It wasn't working for me. I needed something more—''

''Practical,'' he finishes.

''Yeah,'' she says. ''What about you? Why a bow and arrow?''

''Was a hunter, back in the days,'' he says, like it was another century he hadn't appreciated until it was too late. ''Seemed practical, too. If you fire a gunshot into the bush half of your game's gone running wild. But an arrow? Aim right and it's quick and clean.''

Michonne nods as if she understands him and he finds himself trusting that she does.

''Sounds about right,'' she says. ''I guess it all comes down to practicality—survival,'' she shakes her head a little, looks up to stare at the door that has considerably lessened in its pounding. ''Do you know what we're fighting for?''

_Ah_—''A better future,'' but he's not sure himself. ''Dunno. I just know never to give up.''

Their eyes meet and she nods, because yeah, this chick understands him and if she understands him, he may be able to understand her. Maybe if she'd explained why she took two enchained walkers as hostage and where she'd learned to cut and slide like that.

Only, that would mean venturing into the past just after he had considered the past more of an alternate universe, and he's not sure he wants to look back.

''Why do _you_ keep fightin'?''

She stares at him with unfocused gaze and tales in those dark, marble eyes.

''Like you said,'' Michonne breathes. ''A better future.''

Something about a little thing called hope.

…

When they find each other he thinks; _Goddammit_—_God-fucking-dammit, _Jesus fuck and fuck Jesus and shit—a whole lot of shit—he thinks she smells way too good to be a little twisted; insanity's not 'posed to be right. And maybe his mind's clouded. After effects of a Dystopian world, can't distinguish right from wrong and good from bad, and that there's nothing else but insanity.

…

He's the one lunging forward to kiss her, but she kisses him back all the same, fervently and hot and forgetful of the katana that falls from her thighs as she rises to her knees in tune with him. Her hands reach for his shirt, nails clinging and digging deep into tattered fabric and skin. They slide down his chest, past his rib cage until her fingers fickle with the seam of his shirt, clenching it in fists and pushing it up.

He disentangles himself short enough from her to tug the shirt off completely, haphazardly throwing it on the ground. He encases her face in his hands; too rough for her remarkable soft skin, and captures her lips, licks his way into her mouth and sucks hard on her tongue. He itches for more, drags his fingers across her jaw and manages to abate.

Fuck—this warrioress feels so _soft_, if he didn't know better he'd be afraid of breaking her.

She tugs her own shirt past her abdomen, pulls away from his face and drags his bottom lip with her, releasing the offending flesh with a _plump_, the fabric falling to the floor. With delft fingers she reaches behind her, unhooking her bra and allowing it to scurry after her shirt.

He cups one of her breasts, thumbs her nipple in circles, pinches softly and enlightens in the way she bears her neck, pulling her head back. The ripple of her esophagus stirs and her lips part to release a long, breathy sigh. Euphoria has taken its form, and fuck, does she look _amazing_. Daryl leans down to wrap his lips around the neglected nipple, sucking it into his mouth, pinching the other a little harder.

Her voice hitches, stuttering gasps vacating her lips in order to stay as quiet as possible. He groans around her and darts the tip of his tongue over the puckered flesh, altering from slow to fast and sucking harder when her body involuntary jerks forward.

Her fingers slip into his hair, tugging, ''Daryl,'' she moans, almost impatiently. Michonne drags her hands down his chest to the belt of his pants, pulling it out of its loops. Her hand slips into his shorts making him buckle against her before she's even got her hand on his cock. He's groaning around her chest, his warm breath damping her skin and one of his hands gripping her breast a little tighter.

She palms him.

''Fuck,'' he growls, his cock twitching in her hand.

Her grip is firm as she slowly moves her hand from base to tip, pushing him down until the cold tiles touch his back, giving her the chance to straddle him. Daryl's a panting mess, buckling against her hand, watching her heaving breasts and parted lips, braids scattered in front and past her shoulders.

She rises to undo her pants and pull off her underwear, but then she's back, the wet heat of her cunt sliding over the base of his cock. She moves relentlessly, molds them together like a woman with a plan, places her hands at either side of his head and coats him to the tip.

He grasps her hips and thrusts upwards, watching the shake of her breasts as he does so, the sharp gasp that falls off her lips when he hits her there where she needs him and her clit cleaving the head of his cock. He sinks into her, then, deep to the hilt, feeling the tightening in his balls.

A groan wrenches from his mouth as Michonne rolls her hips, propels forward, causing him to jerk up and cup her ass; the firm and soft buns he can't help but squeeze. It's a fast and hard fuck. She rises with the pounding beat of his heart and rushes like oozing blood for her release. He's watching her deliriously, her eyes and face, the flutter of her eyelids when she rises to the tip of him and the tremble of her tits when she slams back down. He moves with her, tightens and stretches his feet and abdomen every time he thinks he's about to lose his load.

They're two frenzied people urgently climbing for release, there's a war going on outside and they haven't forgotten.

He's reaching for that place he has only found in his own rough hand since the apocalypse. His balls tighten, and he sits up; sinking deeper into her. Cleaving something inside that causes her to arch her back, moan something deliriously like _oh fuck_, and roll her hips with abandonment filled grinding. Daryl reaches between her folds with two fingers, finds her clit and rubs it feverishly. He wants to feel her cum first, her walls tightening around his cock, climb that unforgettable release that shakes the body from its core across its very ends.

He reaches up with his other hand to encase the back of her head and plunge his tongue into her mouth, his fingers flickering over her erect bud one last time. Her body shivers, contracts, nails fist the back of his neck and her cunt grips him tighter, sliding slicker. He follows after her with three, deep thrusts, groaning into her mouth and making her jounce across his lap.

She throws herself off him after, lays bare on the dust ridden floor with heavy breaths that expand her sweaty chest.

''Well,'' she mutters, splaying an arm across her face, and he sits there with shaky arms holding him up and—_fuck—_he hasn't ever been shaken like this when death was staring him in the eye. ''That won't happen again.''

His stare moves from the rows of menswear ahead to her reeling form.

''Gotcha,'' but his tongue is dry as it hits his palate so his gruff reply is soft under her panting, ''and likewise.''

…

They dress and go their way.

He checks the boards as she waits behind him, her katana released from its sheet. Daryl sticks his head out, looks left and right. There are no walkers around and they have to make quick if they want any chance at surviving. A lucky spell like this is bound to be temporary and short lived. He looks over his shoulder to the brooding warrioress, note if she's ready.

She's been watching him and as their eyes meet he can't help the heat crawling to his face.

He scowls back at her like she's personally insulted him and maybe he feels like she actually has.

''Ready?'' He grumbles, not waiting for a response. He moves through the gap he's made from the boards, lands with a crouch on the floor and uses his arms to balance him out.

He knows she's right behind him.

Michonne's always ready.

…

It happens again, and again, and again. She tends to show up in his cell with dead blood crusting her skin and he fucks her until the sweat starts clearing her out (when it's not her showing up, it's him and he crawls into her bed, because he's not good with words or being watched from above her bed, and he feels a little lightheaded, really, with the way he craves her so much). Until he forgets to explain why it shouldn't happen in the first place and well past the time he would've made an excuse.

…

When she tells him about the enchained walkers she used to drag around as hounds she makes it clear they weren't ever meant to delude the undead; they were a keepsake. This world's got the nasty habit of making memories shrivel and wilt, and she wasn't going to let that happen (she's a rebellious one; trotting with a horse through a flesh eating mob, cutting down very real sickos with guns). It's the fifteenth time he's wound up crawled between her legs and his cock inside of her, both tangled up in her sheets with ghostly words they've pried themselves to say left behind after the fourth; a memory neither seems compliant to remember or voice. He's fine with it. He likes being inside of her, watching her face when his tongue swivels around her cunt, lapping up the wetness or pulling on her braids hard enough he can count the ripples of her esophagus.

He's not inside of her now. He's in her room, watching her walls, sitting naked on her bed post-coital and wondering what her walls would have looked like before the apocalypse. He's doing that a lot lately, thinking about before the undead and before the war like watching a faded and made out of scraps movie unfold before his eyes.

Michonne's prison walls are bleak, but so is everyone's. Still, he wonders if she likes the color blue or green, if she had posters of celebrities dabbing the walls or if she opted for paintings, something like Michelangelo or Vincent van Gogh.

One of her legs is draped over his while she's lying on her stomach. She's been quiet the whole day through ever since she found Rick outside the fences.

He can't see her watching him, but he feels the intensity of her stare gliding over his face, the warm breath of her mouth touching his skin.

''He sees her—Lori—the wife,'' she speaks softly, always so soft, and when he looks down at her he doesn't see the discomfort he'd think would accompany the allegation of _ghosts_ _sightings_. He cannot recall the lilt of it in her voice either.

He's not sure how to reply to _that_, so he hikes up an eyebrow and simply asks, ''Rick?''

''Yeah,'' she assures. ''Lori's memory haunts him.''

And that—that does make sense. He's acquainted with haunting memories. He sees Merle every night before sleep, Sophia, when he lulls during night watch, Dale, when he dwells in thought, his dad; _'running off is for pansies'_ with a wet chin, because he's been drinking again, when he closes his eyes too long for a blink. Daryl doesn't run, still, but every single person they've lost visits him at dawn break and sometimes he thinks… running would be nice. He's not sure where he'd go, if there's any place to go to, and how fucking _dare_ he think about leaving his group—his family—behind?

''Like in a dream?''

She shakes her head and he feels that soft skin of hers rubbing against his chest. His heart convulses a little and he holds his breath to tame it down.

''Like seeing her. Walking 'round, reaching for him—talking.''

He makes an observation, voices it out loud. ''Doesn't seem to disconcert you.''

''It doesn't,'' she admits without missing a beat. ''I was there… once.''

The question is hanging in the air, lingering on his tongue and prodding at the back of his lips. The silence is heavy, but not unsettling, like she's gathering her thoughts, figuring out who she's laying in a bed with and that fucking is different than talking, that touching each other with hands is a bit rougher than touching each other with words.

Then she tells him, ''I had a boyfriend, once.''

…

There was a family she had at the beginning of the end, but it's the end for a reason.

…

He holds her, afterwards.

He tells her to; '_'c'mere_,'' but this is Michonne and she stares at him like he's mumbled under his breath and she's too tired to ask what he's said. So he reaches down to pull her body closer to his chest, wraps his arm across her waist.

He can hear the underlying words in her repeated silence. When it's all said and done the only ones they'll blame are the faces they only get to see through reflections.

That's why she told him this, because she _knew_ he would understand.

…

While the world is collapsing in itself and the residents are hunting each other down—killing—several still have hope and if there's hope than there _must_ still be a chance of redemption, some form of acceptance, a little thing called happiness and something akin to peace.

And maybe _that's_ why they're still fighting.

…

…

…

...

…

…

…

**End.**


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